by Matt Ralphs
Hopkins raised an ironic eyebrow. ‘Singing my praises, I presume?’
‘He’s telling Lord Cromwell you lack the stomach for the job, that you’re weak. And keeping Murrell and all those witches alive only serves to add fuel to his arguments.’
‘I’m keeping them alive so I can learn how better to fight them.’
‘I know that, but most of the Grandees don’t agree. They want the vermin exterminated right now –’ Grimstone lowered his voice – ‘and if he were here, Cromwell would want the same.’
‘Bloody fools!’ Hopkins snatched the letter from Grimstone and tore it up. ‘Now is not the time to waver from our path. Murrell is close to breaking and damn it all, I’m still master of this house. I’ll set the Grandees straight this very day.’
Hazel would have liked to hear more, but Anthony cleared his throat to alert the Witch Hunters to their presence.
Grimstone turned to leave. ‘At least set a date for Murrell’s execution, General. That might mollify the Grandees for a while.’
‘Anthony, go with Sir Grimstone,’ Hopkins said, beckoning Hazel forward. ‘I trust you are rested, William? Good. I am about to chair a meeting with the Grandees of the Order, and I’d like you to be there.’
‘Of course, General,’ Hazel said. ‘Can you tell me my duties?’
‘You are there to attend to me, but in the main I’d like you to be an observer.’
‘An observer?’
‘Indeed,’ Hopkins said, tidying up some loose papers on his desk. ‘Careful observation is an important aspect of Witch Hunting.’
‘That sounds like the sort of thing Titus would say,’ Bramley whispered.
‘Very well, General,’ Hazel said. ‘And the Grandees . . . ?’
‘They are my esteemed and learned colleagues who, under my auspices, run the various aspects of the Order. There’s the Custodian of Records, the Auditor of Coin, the Spymaster, the Guardian of the Law, and the Warden of the Gaols.’ He shook his head. ‘And a more intractable, vicious, backstabbing lot you would not wish to meet, William. Grimstone is the only one I trust.’
‘And Captain Stearne?’
‘My deputy, and the worst of them all.’ Hopkins grimaced. ‘Lord Cromwell’s appointment, not mine.’
‘I shall be your eyes and ears, General.’
‘Good. Now, I think I’ve kept them waiting long enough.’ Hopkins straightened his jacket. ‘Always arrive last to a meeting, William – it shows everyone where the power lies.’
‘Time to face the hyenas, Hazel,’ Bramley whispered. ‘Just try to stay inconspicuous.’
17
THE GRANDEES GATHER
‘It’s always later than you think.’
Titus White
The guards at the open double doors stood to attention as Hopkins and Hazel swept into the conference room. The six men around the oak table rose and bowed their heads – all except the old man Anthony had identified as the Spymaster. He remained seated, scowling, gnarled hands curled over his walking cane.
‘These must be the Grandees,’ Bramley whispered as Hazel followed Hopkins to the other end of the table.
And what a grim bunch they are, Hazel thought, standing to the left of Hopkins’ high-backed chair.
The Grandees wore a more elaborate variation of the simple black Witch Hunter uniform, and their cloaks were fastened with personalized silver clasps: a key for the Warden of the Gaols, a silver penny for the Auditor of Coin, a quill for the Custodian of Records, a keyhole for the Spymaster, a pair of scales for the Guardian of the Law, and a sword for Grimstone, the Recruitment Sergeant.
Hopkins placed his hands flat on the table. ‘I see Captain Stearne has not graced us with his presence. Never mind, we will continue in absentia.’
‘He’s on his way.’ The Spymaster’s voice was dry as dust. ‘We should wait.’
Hopkins lowered his tone. ‘We shall proceed.’
‘Very well,’ the Spymaster replied. ‘Then let’s begin with the upcoming Execution Pageant. My fellow Grandees and I are interested to know how many prisoners you are planning to execute.’
Hazel saw Grimstone and Hopkins exchange the briefest of glances; the meeting was already going just as they had expected.
‘I’ve selected six witches who have been squeezed of all the information they have,’ Hopkins said. ‘They shall be burned in front of a chosen audience of allies in the Tower Hill arena.’
‘Six?’ the Spymaster spat. ‘We should be burning six hundred, not six. And what about that animal Murrell? He needs to be dealt with . . . permanently.’
‘As I’ve repeated many times before, Murrell has vital information that will allow us to fight witches more effectively.’
‘And what information has he given you so far?’ the Master of Coin asked.
‘I’ll tell you myself – none!’ the Spymaster crowed. ‘He’s not spoken a word since brave Captain Stearne apprehended him.’
‘I think that Spy-man is even worse than Hopkins,’ Bramley muttered.
Hazel saw Hopkins clench his jaw. He’s going to lose his temper any second . . .
‘He should be executed at the Pageant,’ another Grandee stated against a backdrop of approving murmurs. ‘The people demand it . . .’
Hopkins stood up and slammed both fists down on the table. ‘I am the master of this house!’ Every Grandee, even the Spymaster, fell silent. ‘Appointed by Lord Cromwell to act as his proxy while he fights the rebels in the North. And it is my decision to keep Murrell alive for the time being. Is that understood?’
The Grandees exchanged whispers and nodded their reluctant agreement. Hazel would have felt relieved that Murrell had gained a stay of execution, but the Spymaster’s thin smile made her uneasy.
‘Well then,’ Hopkins said. ‘Now that’s settled we can get on with the business of the . . .’
Everyone turned as the door opened and Captain Stearne strode in, brandishing a rolled-up parchment.
‘Ah-ha! The prodigal son returns,’ the Spymaster cried, his wrinkled face creasing further into a satisfied smile.
‘Forgive my late arrival, gentlemen,’ Stearne said, ‘but I have a message from Lord Cromwell.’ He grinned wolfishly at Hopkins. ‘Do I have the Chair’s permission to read it out?’
Hopkins nodded and sat down, looking ready to explode like a misfiring mortar.
Stearne unrolled the parchment and began to read. ‘General Hopkins, my loyal Grandees, it is my command that all witches held in the Order’s custody, including the wretch Nicolas Murrell, are to be executed as soon as possible.’ He looked Hopkins in the eye. ‘All witches, and Murrell, as soon as possible. Lord Cromwell himself demands it.’
Hopkins simmered in a white-hot rage as the Grandees decided how best to carry out Lord Cromwell’s orders. In the end they decided that all the captive witches would be executed together during the Pageant in a spectacular public display, with the burning of Nicolas Murrell taking place on Tower Hill.
The cold and practical way these men discussed the deaths of so many people sickened Hazel to her core, but all she could do was stand still and listen.
Unease gnawed at her. If Murrell was to die at the Pageant, that left her only a few days to speak to him. And how would he react when he found out he was doomed? Would that make him more or less likely to help her?
It was mid-afternoon when the Grandees concluded the meeting and departed to organize the now far more ambitious Execution Pageant, leaving Hopkins, Grimstone and Hazel behind.
Grimstone closed the conference room door and let out a long breath. ‘That could have gone . . . better.’
‘Humbugged! Stearne’s humbugged me, by God!’ Hopkins cried. ‘I must break Murrell before the Pageant – if he gives up just a shred of information it might be enough to convince Cromwell that he’s too valuable to kill.’
‘Then let’s go back to the old methods,’ Grimstone said. ‘Thumbscrews, the rack . . .’
Hazel raised he
r hand. ‘Excuse me, sirs, may I speak?’ Both men looked surprised, as if they’d forgotten she was there. ‘I was just thinking that if Murrell finds out he’s to be executed he’ll have nothing to lose, and you’ll never get him to talk.’
‘So?’ Grimstone said.
‘So,’ Hazel continued, ‘if you let him out of the Oven to be, um, administered to, he might get wind of it and clam up forever.’
Hopkins considered her words. ‘The boy’s right, Grimstone. And in any case, such methods have never worked on Murrell before. For now we’ll keep him contained in the Oven and ensure we are the only ones to speak to him. It’s still a few days until the Pageant and a lot may happen in that time.’
‘Very well, General,’ Grimstone said. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’d better return to my duties.’
‘At least you’ve saved Murrell from being tortured,’ Bramley whispered. ‘But we still have to get a message to him.’
Hazel needed time away from the confines of the Tower, and was desperate to confer with Titus about everything that had happened.
‘General,’ she said. ‘Would now be convenient for me to visit my father? You said I could if I performed my duties to your satisfaction.’
‘Yes, off you go,’ Hopkins said, staring distractedly out of the window. ‘But be back first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘I will, General. Thank you.’ Hazel headed gratefully for the door.
18
THORN
In England, the robin (Erithacus rubecula) is considered lucky.
An English Phantasmagoria by Dr Lee Dorian
The rider stood in the stirrups of his rearing horse, sword raised and ready to strike. Three hag-like witches cowered beneath, their faces twisted with fear.
‘What a horrible statue,’ Bramley said from behind Hazel’s ear.
After leaving the Tower, Hazel had spotted a deserted public garden with flowers and a fountain tucked away near the river embankment. The early evening sun was hot and the thought of tackling the hordes on London Bridge was too much, so she’d decided to have a rest for a while.
‘I think it’s supposed to be Hopkins,’ Hazel replied, sitting by the fountain and running her hands through the water.
‘Huh. It’s not very accurate – he’s much fatter than that, and his nose is . . .’ Bramley trailed off. ‘Er, Hazel?’
Hazel had her eyes closed and her face turned to the sun. ‘What is it, mouse?’ she murmured.
‘I’m not sure. I think you’d better see for yourself – over there, by that hedge.’
Hazel saw a one-legged robin staring at her with bright, intelligent eyes. ‘Why, it’s only a . . .’ She gasped as the robin fluttered into the air and landed on her shoulder. Bramley squeaked, retreated, and reappeared on her other shoulder.
‘Are you Hazel Hooper the Fire Witch?’ The robin spoke with a voice so musical it made Hazel’s heart flutter with delight.
‘That depends on who’s asking.’ Bramley bristled.
‘My name is Thorn,’ the robin replied. ‘I am Nicolas Murrell’s familiar.’
Hazel plucked the robin from her shoulder, feeling his downy breast, the sharp edges of his wing feathers, and the fragile bones underneath. ‘How can that be?’ she hissed. ‘Murrell’s no witch, and only witches have familiars.’
‘It’s a demon!’ Bramley squeaked and dived back into Hazel’s hair.
‘I’m a common robin – no more, no less.’
Hazel looked into Thorn’s shining eyes and then set him down on her lap. ‘I believe you, but I’d still like an explanation.’
‘Nicolas Murrell may not be a witch in the true sense,’ Thorn said, ruffling up his feathers, ‘but years of study and his foray into the Underworld have lent him some aspects of witchiness – including the ability to take on a willing and sympathetic familiar.’
Bramley re-emerged. ‘You mean you’ve agreed to be his familiar? He’s not bound you with some vile spell?’
‘No spell. We met in the garden atop that stone tower in the river,’ Thorn said. ‘I sensed the torment in his soul, so when he asked for my help, I agreed.’
‘So you talk to Murrell, just as I do with Bramley?’ Hazel breathed. ‘Even when he’s in the Oven?’
‘I do,’ Thorn nodded solemnly. ‘There’s a gap in the bricks big enough for me to slip through. He asked me to look out for you when he returned from the interrogation. I am glad to have found you at last, Hazel Hooper.’
‘So am I,’ Hazel said, feeling this bit of good luck was long overdue.
‘Don’t count your chickens yet, Hazel.’ Bramley shook an accusing claw at Thorn. ‘Tell us, bird, what does your unholy master have to say to us?’
Thorn stretched out a wing. ‘He knows why you risked your lives to speak to him.’
‘Oh does he?’ Bramley said.
‘Of course. There can only be one reason: you need his help to rescue Hecate Hooper from the Underworld.’
‘Yes! Yes!’ Hazel leaned closer. ‘And will he? He should do – after all, it’s his fault it happened in the first place.’
‘Nicolas wishes to atone for his part in your mother’s fate,’ Thorn said. ‘And to do that you need to speak with him, face to face.’
‘But there’s no need to,’ Bramley said. ‘He can just tell you, his own little feathery servant, how to open a gate into the Underworld, and you can pass the information on to us.’
‘Exactly,’ Hazel said. ‘We can meet back here after you’ve spoken to him . . .’
‘Face to face,’ Thorn repeated. ‘Nicolas says it’s the only way.’
Hazel looked helplessly at the earnest little robin, feeling all her hope drain away. ‘But I don’t think I can get to him . . .’
‘Hazel Hooper – you have a loyal and courageous familiar, and according to Nicolas your mother’s strength of mind. I doubt not that you can achieve anything you set your mind to.’ Thorn hopped on to Hazel’s hand and stroked his wings against her skin. ‘Goodbye. Nicolas is looking forward to seeing you again.’
19
FACE AGAINST THE GLASS
The wall between our world and the demons’ is paper thin,
and the tears are beginning to show.
Divinations of Oblivion by Brentford Hinds
Hazel was so deep in thought as she trekked back to the tavern that she didn’t even notice people giving her a wide berth when they saw her Witch Hunter’s uniform. Indeed, so wrapped up was she that it took Bramley to remind her to take it off before arriving back at the Bannered Mare.
‘That’s a conversation you really don’t want to have with old Treacher,’ he said. ‘And keep your hair tucked into your cap – you don’t want him noticing how short it is.’
Safely changed into her boy’s clothes – which she could explain away as her rat-catcher work outfit – Hazel took the back steps into the tavern. There was no sign of Titus, so she returned to her room and locked the door. On her pillow was a note written in a painstakingly neat hand.
‘It’s from Mr Treacher,’ she said.
Bramley peered over her shoulder. ‘What does it say?’
Dear Lizzie,
I am writing this in case you return late and I do not see you. I am pleased to tell you that the girl you found has recovered and seems none the worse for wear from her encounter, of which she remembers nothing. Mrs Treacher and I have committed ourselves to looking after her from now on. I am also heartened to say that your good father has decided to investigate the matter of the children’s deaths, having confided in me about his ‘previous occupation’. There is food in the kitchen if you are hungry.
Yours sincerely,
Henry Treacher
‘The old Witch Finder is as good as his word,’ Bramley yawned as he clambered on to Hazel’s lap and curled up into a ball. ‘I wonder what he’s found out?’
Hazel tugged on her bottom lip. ‘I hope he comes back soon. I must speak to him before I leave for the Tower in the morning.’
>
‘Don’t worry, little witch. I’ll stay awake and listen out for his return while you get some . . .’ He trailed off and began to snore.
Hazel let him sleep. As usual when she was alone with her thoughts, they turned to her mother and the terrible place where she was trapped. On the journey to London, Hazel had read Titus’s books to learn as much as she could about the Underworld, but she struggled to understand the many theories and contradictory ideas put forward by the demonologist authors.
Some said the Underworld existed beneath the crust of the earth, and that demons looked up enviously at the human world and sought to destroy it. Others said that demons were the souls of the damned made flesh. In the end Hazel had decided that none of those long-dead scholars knew anything for certain.
She had wanted to read the works of Lars Göran Petrov, the demonologist who had travelled to the Underworld many years ago only to be trapped there and used as a slave by Baal, the same demon that now held Hecate. But Titus had told her the Häxan Jägares – Swedish Witch Hunters – had destroyed every last copy of his books.
Which left Nicolas Murrell the only man alive with any authority on the subject. And even if I find a way to speak to him, he cannot be trusted.
Hazel sighed. Being apart from Titus for the last few days had made her realize how much she had come to depend on his wisdom and strength; he might be a bad-tempered drunk but he was her friend, and she trusted him.
Where are you? she thought, before exhaustion overcame her and she drifted off to sleep.
Hazel woke up groggy and cold on top of the bedclothes – it was dark outside and the tavern was silent. Feeling the need for a breath of air, she left Bramley asleep on the pillow and went to the window.
Titus must not be back yet, she thought. If he were, surely he’d have looked in to see if I’d returned?
She threw back the curtain.
A face of cracked leather and stitches stared back at her, so close to the other side of the glass that Hazel saw her own terrified reflection in each round eye. The hideous beak, the hunched spine, the filthy robe . . . It was the attacker from the alley.
